


Bombs In Your Bones

by officerstilinskihale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Don't know if it worked oops, Fluff, I don't know what this was tbh, I was trying a new thing, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officerstilinskihale/pseuds/officerstilinskihale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><sub></sub><span>I would wish on every star,</span><br/>every eyelash, every penny,<br/>and every bone that anyone<br/>has ever broken if it meant<br/>i could hear you tell me<br/>just how stupid it all is</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bombs In Your Bones

**Author's Note:**

> none of the poetry is mine, it belongs to my wickedly talented friend [wesley](http://bombsinyourbones.tumblr.com/), who you should definitely check out. he is crazy good, and his writing has a special place in my heart, and the title is dedicated to his tumblr url.
> 
> beta'd by myself, sorry for mistakes and stuff.
> 
> like my tags said, i tried out a new style and i don't know how well it turned out but oh well. gotta try new things right? idk. i hope it's okay. enjoy i suppose.

The thing is, before the fire, Derek used to love words. He loved writing them, or reading them, or watching someone recite them and appreciating the way the words would flow fluidly from one to the other, rolling off people’s tongues with soft voices and gentle expressions.

When he was 14, Laura gifted him with the entire works of Edgar Allan Poe and while he would never admit it out loud, there were some tears shed.

There was just something so beautiful about how a series of letters strung together could move someone to anger, or sadness, or lust, or love.

And yet, when Derek lost his family, he also lost his library, his carefully cultivated anthologies and first edition books, and, watching Beacon Hills disappear into the distance through the side-mirror as he sat numbly in the passenger seat of the Camaro next to Laura, Derek swore he'd never enjoy a single poem ever again.

Then he met Stiles. Stiles, whose eyes were like burnt whiskey and his mouth formed soft shapes over sharp words, and for the first time in years, Derek felt his palms itch for a pen and paper to dedicate to Stiles, let the words flow through the cracks in the boy’s skin and show him just how much Derek could love, if given the right chance.

And that night, that first night, when everything started. When it all started with a returned inhaler, and for hours afterwards, Derek could see Stiles’ face staring at him as if it had been imprinted behind his eyelids. And still, he did not write.

Words were no longer his closest friends. They were fleeting, so like everything else Derek had ever known, and he could no longer deal with them.

He left, after the shitstorm of the Alphas, and honestly didn’t expect to come back, allowed himself to be content with seeing Stiles in his dreams. He tried so hard to forget the haunted look on a pale face speckled with moles, the eyes that shone with unshed tears and the hopeless expression of someone so far in over his head.

But he _had_ come back, minus one, because Cora deserved to go to a high school she liked, in a community she was comfortable in, without having to worry about kanimas, and deranged hunters, or power-hungry Alphas. Cora was a good kid, and she was going to do great things one day, and Derek knew that he owed the family that, at least. He came back, alone, just like when Laura had died, except this time, he was expecting to have people there, that he’d know people who had his back.

He didn’t find any of that.

What he found was a darker town, a less optimistic Scott, a quieter Lydia, Allison who no longer glared hostilely at him, instead choosing to blankly stare out into space. Isaac was no longer cautiously hopeful, Deaton frustratingly more bizarre and even Peter had decided to skip town. But the worst one was Stiles. Loud, obnoxiously smart Stiles was quieter, the bags under his eyes emphasizing the way they were dull and defeated. He’d lost so much weight, his skin was stretched tight over his bones and his clothes, already usually baggy, hung off his body like they were rags. The look on his face alone made Derek’s heart clench.

And that was before he found the poems.

Derek finding out was a complete accident. He’d gone into Stiles’ room just to check up, and stumbled over a small black notebook open on Stiles’ bedroom floor. He’d just bent down to pick the book up and he’d read the first line:

> I get it, I get it. I’m not the hero

And he couldn’t help himself. It was untitled, and Derek was surprised to find himself more moved by this simple piece of work than anything he’d glanced over in a long time.

> I get it, I get it. I’m not the hero.  
> I don’t really want to be. I don’t  
> need fanfare and a crown, I don’t  
> need to sweep you up and descend  
> the tower. I don’t need to be a main character  
> I just want to be a signal flare. A light house.  
> I keep having this dream where all you do  
> is climb into the bed of a truck and make room  
> for the bad men. You don’t see the horns  
> on their heads, but I do. I’m up on the hill, screaming  
> I say your name over and over, only it’s never  
> your name and you never hear me, and I guess  
> my mouth doesn’t work, but my eyes do.  
> They sink their teeth in, you look like the ocean on the inside.  
> Your eyes work too; they work just fine. The horns are  
> exactly what you wanted, and that’s the part that wakes me  
> and I am cold and alone and wishing you had been blood  
> instead of water. I wish you had been something to wash off  
> instead of something trying to drown me.

After that, Derek had to go back, see the others, and let himself fall even further in love with this boy, who had a power over words, and expressed himself more eloquently than Derek could even dream of for himself. There were over fifty different poems, some hastily scratched out on napkins with the ink blotted at the curl of the letters and some written in a neat print. Others with water stains on them, as if Stiles had cried while writing them, poured his emotions out onto the well-worn pages.

Things like resonated between the spaces of Derek’s ribs, things like:

> i don’t know what love is without violence.  
> slip your hands between your ribs and kiss me  
> that’s the routine, that’s the way the world is  
> now; it’s war and conquest, a storm with the tide  
> we drown each other. we wash the chaos out  
> and let it come crashing back in again.

And then Derek stumbled across a page, almost blank, save for two small letters in a corner. His initials.

> dh.

He could feel his palms start to sweat, and despite his better judgement, he flipped the page onto the first poem in what seemed to be a series.

> I would wish on every star,  
> every eyelash, every penny,  
> and every bone that anyone  
> has ever broken if it meant  
> i could hear you tell me  
> just how stupid it all is

And then the next:

> somewhere  
> in the world  
> you are breathing  
> like it’s simple  
> like the night  
> does not fall  
> and crush the air  
> out of your lungs

And Derek couldn’t let Stiles fall in love with him. There were so many other guys who were more deserving. Stiles was worth someone who could give him the sun, and tell him just how much he meant to the world. He deserved someone who wouldn’t hurt him trying to express themselves. Someone who wasn’t as damaged and broken and someone who wasn’t Derek.

So, Derek shut the book softly and placed it on the table, but not before taking a page out and scribbling something and leaving it on top of the it, the white a stark contrast to the inky black of the notebook, somewhere Stiles wouldn’t miss.

Eyeing his work critically, he heaved out a huge breath and left.

> Please, never try to make a home out of me. All I know how to do with walls is wreck them.

+++

He should’ve known better.

He should’ve known that Stiles wasn’t the kind of guy to just let things go. Stiles pushed when Derek pulled, he got up in Derek’s face and under his skin and he didn’t take Derek’s shit.

Before Stiles, only Laura had done that, made him feel like he was something worth fighting for.

So of course, Stiles had gone and tracked him down to the nondescript one-bedroom apartment he was currently occupying, the one with the dull walls, and average chairs, ordinary tables, the dull yellow curtains, curtains that looked almost grey in the dimming sunlight, and the mundane sheets on a bland bedframe.

Stiles walking in was like a breath of fresh air, a ray of sunshine in a colorless world, and every other lame, overused cliche in Derek’s head.

Except for the pungent scent of sour whiskey, cloying up Derek’s nostrils with its toxic perfume. He could hear Stiles stumble in, and when he saw him up close, he couldn’t help the pained whine that slid from his throat. Stiles’ eyes were glassy, and he held himself angrily, every nerve in his body tense.

“You don’t get to do that,” Stiles whispered furiously, his fists clenched, and Derek didn’t have anything to say.

“You shouldn’t be drinking.”

Or maybe he did.

Stiles’ eyes blazed, and he threw a balled up piece of paper at Derek, who was taken so unaware, that by the time he had fumbled with it and had it grasped safely between the clasp of his hands, Stiles had already left, the only reminder of his presence the soft, lingering smell of faint citrus underneath all the alcohol.

His heart pounding, he smoothed the piece of paper out and began to read, picturing Stiles’ nimble fingers curled around his pen like errant smoke in the air, and the way the furrow between his eyebrows would deepen when he was thinking, and how his cheeks would flush red with blood when he was angry. The lines on the page seemed to reflect that, sticking like barbs between the spaces of his ribs, and the room seemed to have the air sucked out of it, each word like a punch to his stomach.

> okay, so i’m drunk again  
> it was an accident, just like  
> thinking of you at the worst time  
> (and I am starting to think  
> anytime is the worst time).  
> love is supposed to be good  
> for you. but I can only find it  
> when i’m lonely and need  
> a way out

Stiles thought Derek was making fun of him?

That was crazy. Didn’t Stiles realize how much he meant to the pack? To Derek?

As soon as the thought had crossed his mind, Derek sobered up. Stiles didn’t have anyone to show him how important he was. People, Derek himself included, tended to use Stiles and then ignore him until the next time.

It was a vicious cycle, and Derek was determined to end it, even if he had to use his rusty poetry to get it done.

His next piece was more than a single line, and he wedged the folded sheet of paper on the inside of Stiles’ window sill, where he knew it would be found.

> they’re going to lie to you  
> they’re going to tell you that  
> some part of you is missing  
> and you will find it in the mouth  
> of a stranger. don’t you dare listen.  
> you are your own solution.  
> you are all right here.  
> you are enough.

There was nothing for a while after that, and Derek thought that was the end of it, that he’d finally gotten Stiles to realize that he was worth more than what he thought, he was worth everyone in this town put together, and no longer believed in the ridiculous notion of being in love with Derek.

Until he found a grocery receipt tucked into the windshield of the Camaro a week later, the words scrawled hastily onto the page with a shitty blue pen that was slowly running out of ink.

> no one ever said  
> that living without you would  
> be this impossible

And, of course, Derek’s reply to that was simple.

> Don’t ever let someone convince you  
> that it’s only love if it teaches you the taste  
> of your own blood. Love is not copper;  
> and it’s probably not as patient or kind  
> as any of us deserve, but it certainly isn’t  
> out to make us ugly. Love is what teaches you  
> that home is not a place, but a feeling; and  
> fear is not a knife in your heart, but a knife  
> you wish you could take for someone else.

+++

Derek had really only meant to slip into Stiles’ room to drop the poem off, but somehow, he had been too preoccupied with his own thoughts to hear Stiles’ heartbeat, beating strong and steady against his ribcage as he slid in through the open window.

The moment his foot touched the padded floor, Stiles turned around, and held his hand out, and Derek thought about protesting for a moment before he hung his head in defeat and dropped the page in Stiles’ hand.

Expecting Stiles to open it and read it immediately, he startled when Stiles spoke.

“Are we going to talk about this?” he asked, his eyes focused on the neatly folded page in his hands.

Derek cleared his throat. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. How have you been sleeping?”

Stiles blinked, probably at the unexpectedness of the question, before he let out a hollow laugh and looked away.

“I’ve been sleeping okay,” he said, and Derek almost flinched at the bold lie, Stiles’ heartbeat skipping almost easily over the words, as if the answer was standard, and had been used so many times that Stiles had almost begun to believe it. He opened his mouth to remind Stiles that he, in fact, had supernatural abilities and knew how to use them, when he stopped short, because Stiles was pulling open the page.

He felt frozen to the ground, even as Stiles’ eyes skimmed the words and he read them too quietly for even Derek’s ears to pick up, and Derek took a moment to think about how the words would sound so much more melodic if they would fall from Stiles’ lips, each letter moving perfectly in sync with each beat of Derek’s heart, and the pounding of his pulse.

Stiles finished and looked up at Derek, his eyes determined, and he took a step closer.

“Come home,” he said, and Derek shook his head.

“Come home,” Stiles repeated, his voice just as perfectly honeyed as Derek always thought, the lines melding together easily, because Stiles was more artistically talented than anyone had given him credit for. “You are taking too long. Your dinner is cold. Don’t you know what time it is? It’s not funny.”

He took a breath and opened his eyes that had slid shut sometime in the middle of what he had been saying, and for a second, Derek thought he saw a flash of the old Stiles, buried underneath the exhaustion and helplessness.

“Just, turn on the light. Say my name. Please.”

“Stiles,” Derek croaked out, his voice broken, and Stiles let out something like a sob. “When was the last time you looked into a mirror and apologized for the way you talk to yourself?”

And with those parting words, Derek turned his back to Stiles and left without another look.

+++

But, lying in bed, Derek couldn’t get Stiles’ words out of his head, and after countless hours of mindlessly pacing in his unremarkable room, he picked out a sheet of old stationary paper, and wrote for the boy who taught him what it meant to be filled to the brim with emotions that he had no other way of expressing. Feelings that scratched at his insides, desperate to be let out. Feelings that he had sworn he’d never let himself feel again.

And yet.

> I can tell this story any way  
> I want, so I do.  
> you are not asleep; you are not  
> collapsing from the inside.  
> There is still light here.  
> I stand you against it, I turn you  
> into the sun, into a thousand stars  
> a constellation. I speak to you  
> every night, I piece you together  
> over and over, but either way  
> you are there and I am here  
> and I go to bed alone

There was something simultaneously terrifying and freeing into finally admitting his lo… feelings for Stiles, and even knowing how they both felt about each other, Derek was still surprised to find another poem left for him in his doorknob, wedged into the keyhole.

> We could be in love and yet I don’t think we’ll ever be  
> but your mouth helps me remember I have  
> bits of the stars buried in me. In your hands,  
> I am the cosmos. I’m bright and beautiful and  
> I think I’ll burn forever.

And underneath, not a poem, just something Stiles had written.

> You’re the only person who’s made me feel worth it in a long time.  
> Thank you.

And then, there was nothing. Nothing but the realization that maybe Stiles needed Derek as much as Derek needed him.

+++

He found Stiles with his head between his legs just outside the cemetery, his hands clenched into fists on his knees, breathing heavily. His heart was already slowing down, and it looked like Derek had missed the worst of the panic attack.

He hung back, until Stiles exhaled and stretched his legs out, and that’s when Derek walked closer, watching with a dry mouth as Stiles’ head snapped up and his pulse spiked.

“Derek,” Stiles blinked in surprise before trying to wipe the tears from his eyes without Derek noticing. “What are you doing here?”

“My name loses meaning in any mouth but yours,” Derek recited, holding his ground when Stiles’ jaw dropped. As he opened his mouth to respond, Derek held a hand up and watched as Stiles quieted down, the sound of the birds suddenly dying out, leaving the area in a charged silence. “I’m sorry no one ever told you it’s okay to look in the mirror and not like what you find there. I’ve been gone for almost a hundred days, and in that time the sun has only gotten hotter; and the cracks in the streets have only widened. Every day, a building gets tired of standing for people who don’t appreciate it. Everything that seems eternal will rot; that’s obvious if you look close enough, and obviously I never did.”

Stiles didn’t even miss a beat. “I know I remember you the wrong way, but I was hoping that if I could hold you up to the light and look at you just right, then I might see the face of someone who is sorry for the night he left.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, dropping his gaze to the floor. “There are not enough words I could say to express that, but if you’ll let me try, I’ll do my best.”

It’s raw, and painfully honest, and Stiles must read it in Derek’s face because he took two steps forward, close enough to cup Derek’s jaw in his huge hands and murmur, so close to Derek’s mouth, his breath washing over him like a the fresh air he knew Stiles would be.

“Bravery is hard. I don’t want to be brave; I want everyone whole and happy, but it doesn’t work that way.”

Derek let himself grip Stiles’ waist, his warm hands pressing into Stiles’ cold body, trying to ease out the pain, and the grief with his touch, show Stiles he was no longer alone.

“Blood washes out in the sink and then it’s gone forever, but you are still here. You are still right here.”

+++

They have issues, of course, because everybody does, but after the all the fights and the mess and the demons and the constant threat of danger, they work through it.

Together.

And one night, when Stiles puts their son to bed after his third birthday, he’ll find a crinkled sheet of paper under his pillow, when Derek’s fast asleep, and he’ll open it with a smile on his face and the hole that Derek helped mend in Stiles’ heart will repair itself just that little bit more with the words:

> Love is checking my pulse and finding your heartbeat instead.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://officerstilinskihale.tumblr.com/).


End file.
